When the double mountain they sought came into view they seemed small and unimpressive. Heffi checked and double checked their position again, finally declaring them to be the correct peaks, made tiny by distance.
Once more, the prow of the ship was set towards the Sotherwinter continent.
CHAPTER THIRTY
A Secret Deeply Buried
UPON THE FINAL Isle Aarin did not dream. Oblivion awaited him when he slept, and he rose every morning unrefreshed. He came to dread retiring to the damp cell he and Pasquanty shared upon the ground floor of the monastery. Without windows or fireplace, the walls were constantly damp, the lines between the stones picked out by spongy mosses that glowed eerily when the candle was out. At the highest tides the waves boomed against the foot of the mount, not far from the walls. Being awake in the cell was oppressive, sleeping worse. To rest there was to sink beneath the dark waves.
“Is this how the drowned feel?” Pasquanty said every few days. The deacon became pale, his eyes bloodshot and red rimmed, crusted with an unhealthy scurf. Aarin was irritable.
They spent their days pacing the chilly cloisters, or atop the windy tower. Twice Aarin attempted to climb the knoll of the island, twice he was driven back by freezing, horizontal rain. Despite the season, the sun paid only fleeting visits to the Final Isle. From the summit of the tower blue fringed the horizon, but never made it to the island. It wore a shroud of clouds as if in protracted mourning, and the temperature never rose beyond the norms of early spring, although they were approaching the beginning of summer. Aarin could not imagine being warm again. At the times his patience was thinnest, he would go to the prior’s steward’s office and ask to know when the prior would see them.
The steward never looked up from his piles of ledgers. He did not stop writing. He was not bound by the monks’ oaths of silence, but would always say just one word, and would not be drawn to speak again. “Soon,” was all he would say.
So it went on for weeks. Even at the times they were permitted to speak the monks of the island had little to say to Pasquanty and Aarin or each other. The Guiders ate with the monks in their refectory—it was a small mercy that the food, culled from the sea, was hearty, if repetitive. Only at mealtimes did the monks pull down their black hoods to reveal faces trapped in black wrappings. Their necks and heads were hidden, the black bandages covering even their foreheads. The severity of the monks’ dress robbed them of individuality, making all save the most extreme of their features unmemorable. After weeks on the island, Aarin only recognised a handful of their faces and had come to identify them by their gait, habits and size—the limping monk, the fat monk, the hurried monk, the slow monk, and so forth. He rarely matched a face to these characteristics.
Following mealtimes the priests of the island withdrew to the north wing of the building, where they remained until well into the short night. Candles shone in the barred windows. A persistent tapping of chisels could sometimes be heard. Aarin knew nothing else of their work, and for most of the day he and Pasquanty were left alone. Boredom set in, loneliness followed close on its heels. Sleep was always elusive, and unpleasant.
Their routine appeared the beginning of a dull eternity, until one night a loud knocking upon the door dragged Aarin back from his nightly struggle against the dark.
Pasquanty rasped a flint and iron together, setting alight a wad of fire cotton and lifting it to their candles. Made of sea dragon tallow, they gave off a fishy odour that permeated every room of the monastery.
The banging continued at the same rhythm.
“Who is it?” mumbled Aarin. He swung his legs out of the bed, clenching his jaw as bare feet hit the freezing floor.
“I will see, master,” said Pasquanty. He left his bed, candle shielded by his hand. “Who is there?” he said, not a little tremulously.
“I have come from Prior Seutreneause,” said an emotionless voice. “He will see you now.” The knocking stopped. There was no lock upon the door, but the monk did not attempt to enter. “Bring your dead charge.”
The news banished Aarin’s tiredness. “Quickly Pasquanty!” he said, clambering from his bed. “We must be quick! Finally, we are to have answers!”
Pasquanty helped Aarin dress as fast as he could. For his meeting with the Prior, Aarin put on his Guider’s robes, not the demi-habit the monks had given him. Aarin drank a glass of water, dashed more on his face and yanked wide the door. There was no one there.
“By the dead!” said Aarin. “He’s gone. Quick! We must not miss our chance. Get Mother Moude, get the box!”
Pasquanty thrust the candle at Aarin, and dragged Mother Moude’s heavy, iron-bound chest out of the corner of their room.
Aarin fairly ran through the dark monastery, Pasquanty lagged behind with the chest.
Not knowing where to go, Aarin headed to the doorway to the north wing of the monastery. Always locked before, he found it hanging wide. He hesitated, started forward, then turned back. “Pasquanty! Get a move on!”
“Coming master!” called the deacon. Pasquanty caught up, straining at the effort. Aarin looked through the door. Candlelight shone from around the corner. He blew his own tallow out and set it down in on a shelf.
“Let me take a handle.”
Pasquanty set the box down. The two of them lifted it again.
“Thank you Guider Aarin,” said Pasquanty.
“I do not think we need to hurry,” Aarin said. He moved forward, Pasquanty shuffling awkwardly on the other end of the chest. The door opened onto a small vestibule. A second door was situated in the wall at right angles to the first, also open. From beyond came the yellow glow of candles and the sound of pens on paper. The tap of chisels on stone rang at the edge of hearing.
About half the monastery’s complement sat in rows at high, angled desks, writing on sheets of vellum. The pages were richly decorated, the characters they wrote in the centre of each too small to be made out without a lens. Aarin looked about questioningly, but the monks ignored the two Guiders.
“Where is the prior’s office?” he asked eventually.
A single monk turned to regard them, his face floating like a ghost in the centre of his hood. The monk raised a finger and pointed to a door, almost invisible in an unlit corner of the hall. Aarin and Pasquanty hurried to it.
The door was of a single panel of closely fitted planks, deeply carved with an image of the Dead God gazing balefully from his cross. There was a huge lock, but its deadbolt was withdrawn from the iron staple in the frame, and the door pushed open at the slightest touch.
A stairwell descended into the earth. A strong draft slightly warmer than the air in the monks’ hall blew from below. The sound of tapping grew louder.
“Come on,” said Aarin.
“Yes Guider,” said Pasquanty in a small voice.
The stair spiralled down around a central pillar carved from the living stone of the island. The steps were slippery, the light from the infrequent candles inadequate.
“What is that tapping?” panted Pasquanty. The steepness of the steps forced him to bend uncomfortably over, his hands almost between his knees. The weight of Mother Moude’s box pulled on Pasquanty’s shoulders, the forward edge of it dug into Aarin’s arms.
“Chisels,” said Aarin.
The stair emerged through an archway that looked like it had been built for a larger staircase. Rich carvings of the Dead God in his many guises wound their way up freestanding pillars to an arch that joined with the stone of the island’s roots. The Guiders passed under into a vault, very long, carved directly from the stone and lit by smokeless firebowls whose light was directed onto the walls and curved ceiling by polished bronze reflectors. This illumination was so strong it was easy to see that the stone was covered in tiny script. A scaffolding bridged the vault two thirds of the way down. Two open-sided towers with many floors allowed access to the walls. A long walkway joining them gave access to the ceiling. Men worked all over the scaffolding, chiselling at the
walls or lying on their backs, carving the script into the ceiling above them. From the far end, where the vault receded into darkness, the draft came, stronger now and carrying a hint of decay.
To their right was a solitary door set into an arch as richly decorated as the entrance to the vault.
“This way, Pasquanty,” Aarin said. The crossed a floor buffed to a high shine. A few feet away from the wall the script became legible. It was proved to be name after name, letters as big as a child’s fingernail crammed close together in lines equally miserly spaced. A lozenge between each name divided them, otherwise they were so tightly written the names would have run into one another. Without this, Aarin doubted he would have recognised them so quickly for what they were. The majority were Karsan.
“What is this?” said Pasquanty.
“A list of the dead, I would guess,” said Aarin. He bade Pasquanty set the chest down. He ran his hand over the letters.
A cough brought his attention to the door. It had opened without his noticing, and a monk stood there. He wore white, his hood was down and his head was unwrapped. Unlike every other inhabitant of the isle, he had a warm expression. “This way, Guider Aarin,” he said. “Leave your charge, we shall collect her upon our return.”
They followed the monk into a hallway lined with statues. A sole, sweet-scented candle burned between the feet of each. “The former priors of the Final Isle,” the monk explained. Aarin counted thirty. Empty plinths continued where the statues stopped, awaiting future occupants.
“This must be an ancient place,” said Pasquanty.
“It is,” said Aarin. “These statues represent hundreds of years of leadership going back beyond the formation of The Hundred, to the time of King Brannon.”
“They do,” said the monk. “There have been members of our order here since before the Isles were settled.”
“Are we under the sea? This vault and hall extend past the limits of the isle’s mound.”
“You have your father’s capacity for practical observation,” said the monk approvingly. “But you are not under the ocean. You are beyond it.”
The monk had said more words during this short conversation than all the others had throughout their stay on the isle. Questions jockeyed with one another in Aarin’s mind, tripping over each other in the race to get to his tongue and snarling it in the process. He stuttered, began asking one thing then switched to another. “Beyond? Metaphysically?”
“We are the wardens of death,” said the monk serenely.
“How, do you have mages? Why is this not more widely known within the order?” he asked. Pasquanty huddled close to his back. For once, Aarin did no rebuke him for his timidity.
“In good time. You have been judged worthy, Guider Aarin Kressind. All will be revealed to you shortly.”
“The names on the wall, what does they mean?”
They came to a door covered in bronze, graven with dozens of representations of the Dead God, all with the same dolorous face.
“All will be revealed in good time,” said the monk. He opened the door. “Enter. The prior will see you now.”
The prior’s office was well appointed, surprising Aarin after the austerity of the rest of the monastery. Thick carpet muffled their footsteps. Books lined the walls. A large fireplace made the room the warmest he had yet encountered on the isle. A nest of sofas circled the fire. At the far end was a large desk, the four legs carved with the Dead God, his staring, miserable face prominent. Behind the desk sat the prior. He had a sheaf of papers arrayed before him, but his pen was in its pot, and he watched them over laced fingers.
“Prior Seutreneause!” said Aarin. He strode down the length of the office, leaving the timorous Pasquanty behind.
“Guider Aarin,” said Seutreneause. He opened one long hand and gestured to a chair set facing his desk. “Sit.”
Aarin went to the chair and sat. After so long in the cold of the monastery he felt ridiculously hot, although the room could not have been any more than comfortably heated. His impatience chafed at him. “Prior—”
The prior held up a finger for silence.
“You too, deacon. Come sit before me. This concerns you also.” Seutreneause was of Macer Lesser, and spoke Maceriyan in the idiosyncratic manner of that land.
Pasquanty came forward, his nervous eyes darting around the study, his larynx bobbing in his throat.
The prior considered them. “Guider Triesko recommended you to us, Guider Aarin.”
“He told me to come here,” said Aarin, doing his best to rein in his impatience. “To bring Mother Moude with me.”
“Do you know why?”
“I went to him for help. The dead I guide have become erratic. Fewer ghostings are required, but those spirits that need help do not go easily. I wished to know if this were normal. My attempts to speak with other notable Guiders came to nothing. My readings in the libraries of our order brought me no answers. To be frank, I did not wish to trouble Triesko with this knowledge, and waited until I had exhausted other lines of inquiry before approaching him.”
“I see. Why?” asked the prior.
“He was good to me when I was his deacon.”
“That is not all.”
“I was concerned he would report me for my use of Mother Moude,” admitted Aarin. “She was put into my keeping, I assume to keep her from less trustworthy hands. But I used her. I was the one who was not to be trusted.”
“You were supposed to use her,” said the prior.
“So Guider Triesko told me,” said Aarin irritably. “I am sorry prior, we have waited here for a very long time. Triesko told me nothing, other than to imply that I did right in doing wrong. Why was I sent here? Why have we been kept waiting?”
The prior reached out to rest his hand on a large paperweight. Preserved inside the glass was the skeleton of an anguillon elver, no bigger than a finger. “You are aware of the dwindling of the Dead God’s quarter?”
Aarin shrugged. “What of it? The number of fourth sons sent into our service grows less every year, so I have been told by the Master of Inductions. These are irreligious times. Once we were priests, but they are not popular. There is no god to minister for. Only the necessity of our calling stopped our order collapsing as the churches of the other gods did after the Driving. I am not surprised fewer are attracted to the role. It is a lonely vocation, funding is not what it was and we are not as respected. The world has changed.”
“The quantity of the quarter is less than it was, but so is the quality,” said the prior. “Traditionally, the fourth sons of mage-tainted families have always had the gift of communion with the dead, whether the talent for magic showed itself in their generation or not. Once, the third brothers of the greatest mages were powerful wielders of magic in their own right. Now there are few mages, and few fourth sons with the Guider’s gift.”
“The magisterial colleges attract them,” said Aarin. “It is a matter of custom, surely?”
The prior shook his head. “Not only custom. The mage taint weakens, many families have lost their touch altogether, and those who are gifted are rarely capable of becoming true mages. Res Iapetus was the greatest of his kind, but also one of the last.”
Pasquanty interrupted. “Is it some punishment of the gods for their banishment?”
Aarin frowned at him.
The prior gave a reptilian smile. “The gods are not in any position to punish anyone. I shall be frank with you both. The very nature of magic is altering, fundamentally. That is why the dead fade away or do not go easily. Those souls that are strong-willed enough to manifest will not be commanded, because we do not have the strength to command them. Those souls that do not manifest after death cannot gather the power to make themselves appear. The fences of the dead become higher, their realm is withdrawing from ours. Look into the realm of death, and you will see no way through. The gates of death are closing.”
“How do you expect me to believe that magic is leaving the Earth?”
said Aarin. “The streets are full of machines powered by metaphysical engines.”
“But what he says is true,” said Pasquanty.
“Be quiet!” snapped Aarin.
“If you expected answers from me, you will be disappointed. I have performed my own investigations,” said the prior. “All we of the inner chamber have. We are not alone in noticing this dwindling. Alas the magisters that speak up on the matter are silenced by the vested interests of their own colleges; the Lord Magisters would cast the triumph of the magisterial way of magic as proof of its superiority rather than it being a consequence of magic’s weakening efficacy. Others are too removed from the art to see anything amiss. Their devices work. The magisters ply their trade. The bereaved take the lack of ghosts as a sign of a peaceful departure. The world continues to turn.”
“Triesko did tell me one thing,” said Aarin. “He hinted to me that there were more than two gods still abroad in the world.”
Seutreneause shook his head in disappointment. “He was premature in telling you this, but what harm is there in it now?”
“The god of death?” guessed Aarin. Seutreneause gave the slightest nod. “He was not driven out by Iapetus?” said Aarin.
“He lives here, in this world between worlds, under the Final Isle.”
“Then, if the god of the dead is still among his servants, why do you not speak with him?”
“We have tried. We have failed.”
“Then why have I been sent here?”
“Can you not see?” said Seutreneause. “Through your mother your family carries the mage taint. Your talent as a Guider is unsurpassed in the current generation. You were sent here to speak with Tallimastus. You were sent here not to receive answers, but to provide them.” The prior picked up a small silver bell and rang it.
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